by Anne Weale
She looked up inquiringly, and it flashed across her mind that his Spanish descent was somehow more marked than usual tonight.
“It’s something I begin to think I should have done sooner and more often,” he said in a peculiar tone.
The next moment she was held fast in his arms.
“Don’t worry. No one can see us, querida,” he murmured, a second before his mouth came down on hers.
Nothing in her previous experience of his past caresses had prepared her for the passion of his kiss. When at last he released her she was breathless and trembling.
“So you are not entirely immune,” he said softly, and there was a glitter of something akin to triumph in his eyes.
Then, slipping his hand under her elbow, he propelled her around the corner and into the house.
Later Andrea had vague recollections of a maid taking her wrap and showing them into a large low-ceilinged room in which a group of people were drinking aperitifs and talking together with the ease of country neighbors, but it was not until a woman came forward to greet them that Andrea forced herself to assume a semblance of normality. Although she was in her late fifties, Rachel Bartley had the slim figure and graceful carriage of a young girl. Her curly hair framed a face that had never been beautiful, but that seemed so because it reflected the sweetness of her disposition.
She was wearing a simple dress of lilac chiffon with a triple string of pearls at her throat and matching earrings. Her hands were large and capable, with short unpolished nails, and her only ring was a plain gold band.
She welcomed them with genuine warmth, waving away Justin’s apologies for their late arrival and introducing first her husband, a tall soldierly man with a grizzled mustache and beetling eyebrows, and then the other guests.
They dined in a pleasant Regency room with French windows opening onto a sheltered rose garden. Andrea was seated next to her host, with a young clergyman, the owner of the dilapidated Morris, on the right. She was quickly set at ease by Sir Ronald, whose rugged features belied a kindly and humorous temperament.
Justin was at the-other end of the table between a large loud-voiced woman in a shapeless mustard-colored dress, who bred dogs and had their hairs adhering to her skirt, and a shy girl, the Bartleys’ niece, who was spending a sketching holiday with them.
Only once during the meal did Andrea catch his eyes on her, and she hastily turned back to her host.
Her pulses had steadied and she no longer felt that the imprint of his fierce kisses must be visible to everyone present, but she was still profoundly disturbed, not only by Justin’s behavior but by the unfamiliar sensations that it had aroused.
For the first few moments in his crushing embrace she had felt nothing but shock and an instinctive resistance. But the strength of his enfolding arms, the feel of his fingers against the nape of her neck and the urgency of his lips on hers had stirred a mounting excitement until her bones seemed to be melting and a strange fire coursed through her veins. At first she had tried to resist it, but for the first time in her life she had found her willpower helpless against this stronger force. Then, just as she was beginning to respond, he had let her go, and it had been like being woken out of some half terrifying, half wonderful dream. And now, nearly an hour afterward just thinking about it made her heart beat unevenly.
When the women withdrew to the drawing room, leaving the men to linger over port and cigars, Lady Bartley invited Andrea to sit beside her and said, “I am so delighted to meet you at last, my dear. Justin did ask us to your wedding, but Ronald was in Scotland and I was in Norfolk looking after my younger daughter’s children while she had another baby. Her husband is a farmer and they live in a rambling old house miles from civilization, so she had to manage without any domestic help. Now, tell me, how do you like Lingard?”
“It’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen,” Andrea said with a smile.
“Yes, isn’t it lovely? Although I will never understand how Ellen and Tom Bassett manage to run it with so little help, but of course they are devoted to the family and haven’t this slapdash attitude that seems to be the curse of our age. Are you planning to spend much time in Cornwall, or do you prefer London?”
“We haven’t really discussed it yet,” Andrea said, a little awkwardly.
“No, of course not. I must say I hope you do decide to settle here for part of the year. Justin’s mother was a great friend of mine and she adored the place. It seems a pity that it should have been more or less empty for so many years. Of course it’s an ideal background for children, with the cove and the woods to play in and that vast schoolroom where they can thump and shout as much as they please without disturbing the rest of the household.”
At her mention of the schoolroom, Andrea, who was feeling increasingly uncomfortable, bit back a puzzled inquiry. When Justin had shown her over the house on their first evening at Lingard, he had not mentioned a schoolroom. Presumably it was on the top floor where, he had said, there was nothing but attics. Had he forgotten the room or had it been a deliberate oversight, she wondered.
Lady Bartley continued to chat about life at Lingard in past years until the men joined them, when Andrea was drawn into a lively discussion about the merits of television. Somebody recalled seeing her in a television fashion show and she was questioned about this with great interest.
Later Sir Ronald showed her the vegetable garden, which was the pride of his retirement. When she returned to the house she was told that Justin was in the driveway talking about cars with the young man who owned the rakish sports coupe.
It was shortly before ten o’clock when Andrea slipped into the hall and asked the housemaid who was bringing in. fresh coffee where the washroom was. She was shown upstairs to a bedroom with an adjoining bathroom.
She was retouching her lips at the mirror above the washbasin when she heard two of the other women enter the bedroom, one of them complaining that her new girdle was cutting her in two.
Andrea could not help overhearing their conversation, but it was not until one of them said, “What do you think of the bride?” that their remarks caught her attention.
“I was pleasantly surprised,” the other one said. “I expected the worst, but she seems charming. Of course one wouldn’t really expect Justin to be caught by a gold digger, but even the most astute men can lose their heads over a pretty face, and this child is quite breathtaking.”
Andrea stretched her hand to turn on the tap and warn them of her presence. But before she could do so, the first voice said, “Personally I feel terribly sorry for her. As you say, she obviously isn’t a gold digger, so I suppose she’s in love with him—he’s certainly wildly attractive. I hope she doesn’t find out about his affair with the Abbott woman.” Andrea stiffened. She knew that to go on listening was against all tenets of decent behavior, but however shameful it might be to do so, she had to hear the other woman’s reply.
“I should think he gave Rosa Abbott her conge when he put up the banns,” the second voice said with a cynical laugh.
“No, that’s the whole point. He’s still in league with her. I saw him leaving her apartment about three weeks ago, when I was taking a shortcut through Shepherd Market. Really, men are the limit! If he can’t give Rosa up why on earth didn’t he marry her? After all, an actress is quite as acceptable as a model.”
“Perhaps she wouldn’t have him. A protector is much easier to manage than a husband,” her companion remarked. “He’s asking for trouble, though. The bride is bound to hear about it and then there’ll be fireworks.”
“She looks a bit pale and wan in spite of that marvelous makeup. I wonder if she’s expecting the son and heir,” the first voice suggested.
“I suppose that’s why he married her, to safeguard the family fortune. Oh, well, at least she’ll be miserable in luxury.”
There was a pause and a rustle of skirts. For an agonizing moment Andrea thought they were coming into the bathroom, but then she heard the bedroom d
oor creak and their voices fading away along the hallway.
Long after they had gone downstairs she stayed where she was, her mind numbed by the ghastly significance of what she had heard. Then, as the first stunning impact lessened, a tide of confused feelings swept over her. Scorn at her own ignorance of something that she might have suspected long ago. Bitterness at Justin’s duplicity behind a screen of candor. Shame at the cynical amusement or scandalized sympathy with which people must regard her.
Rosa Abbott. The name was like a taunt, jeering at her naiveté. With a flare of anger she remembered that shortly before their wedding Justin had taken her to the opening of a play in which the actress was starring. During the intermissions they had discussed her brilliant acting, her looks and her unusual, rather throaty voice. What had Justin said? Had there been a mocking gleam in his eye? She could not remember. And later that night, after he had taken her home, had he visited Rosa?
“Here you are! We were wondering what had happened to you. My dear girl, whatever is the matter?”
Rachel Bartley pushed open the bathroom door, her smile changing to an expression of concern as she saw Andrea’s pallor and the feverish brightness of her eyes.
“What is it? Are you feeling ill?” she asked urgently.
“No, no. I’m all right now. I was just a bit sick.” Andrea said hurriedly.
“Not because of anything you’ve had here, I hope? My poor child, what a wretched evening for you. I wish I’d known you felt ill. Come and lie down for a while and then Justin can take you home.”
“Please ... it’s nothing. I’m quite recovered now. I didn’t want you to know,” Andrea said, forcing a smile.
Comprehension dawned in Lady Bartley’s troubled blue eyes.
“Of course! How tactless of me. So that’s why Justin is looking so pleased with life. To be honest I thought you looked a little worn, but nowadays so many people wait a year or two that one doesn’t automatically expect a bride to look off-color.” She smiled and patted Andrea’s arm, secretly amused at the flush that had suffused the girl’s face. The announcement of Justin’s engagement to a fashion model had filled her with misgivings, but she might have known he would choose wisely. Quite apart from her exquisite looks, the child was charming. Young, unspoiled, intelligent with delightful manners and none of the artificiality that she had expected.
“Please, would you not mention this to Justin?” Andrea said, striving to sound natural.
“No, of course not. I suppose he’s as panicky as most prospective fathers,” Lady Bartley said with a laugh. “But you will take care of yourself, won’t you, my dear?”
Andrea never knew how she got through the rest of the evening until at eleven o’clock Justin said it was time they started back. But as they said their farewells—Lady Bartley giving her hand a confidential squeeze—she was torn between relief at no longer having to play a part and dread of being alone with Justin.
As he helped her into the car and tucked a light rug over her legs it was all she could do not to jerk away from his touch. Fortunately, he did not seem inclined to talk, and after one or two remarks about the evening, which she answered in a drowsy voice, he fell silent, concentrating on driving.
The journey seemed twice as long as before, but at last they swung into the driveway and approached the house. Like most country folk, the Bassetts went to bed early, and Justin drove around to the garage, which Tom had left open with a storm lantern hanging on the door.
Andrea did not wait for him to finish locking up but crossed the yard and went in by the door that led past the kitchens into the hall.
“Hey! Why the rush?” Justin asked, catching her up at the baize-padded door that divided the servants’ quarters from the rest of the house.
“I’m tired,” she said shortly, pushing it open and crossing the hall without looking at him.
“Too tired for a nightcap?”
“I don’t want one, thank you.”
“You sound annoyed. What’s the matter? Did the evening bore you?”
“No indeed, it was most illuminating.”
He caught her hand and pulled her around to face him.
“You’re angry about something. What is it?”
She freed her hand. “Tell me something, Justin ... What does querida mean?”
His eyebrow arched and he smiled. “It’s the Spanish word for darling,” he said.
Andrea’s eyes blazed and all the vehement feelings that she had had to suppress during the past intolerable hour at the Bartleys’ house suddenly welled up.
“I see. How touching!” Her voice was taut with disgust. “I knew you were a hard man, Justin, but I never thought you were a hypocrite!”
His smile faded. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“It isn’t necessary for you to pretend any longer. I suppose I should have guessed at the beginning. Perhaps it wouldn’t have made any difference then.”
Her voice broke and she turned and ran blindly toward the stairs, her vision blurred by the stinging tears that she could no longer check.
She heard Justin calling her back, and suddenly she was afraid of him, afraid of what he might do now that she knew the truth. The staircase seemed endless, and as she reached the landing she heard him coming after her, taking the stairs three at a time and commanding her to stop. As she fled along the gallery a rug skidded under her foot and she almost lost her balance. Mercifully her bedroom door was ajar, and she flung herself inside, slammed it shut and turned the key, her breath coming in great gasps and tears pouring down her cheeks. For a moment she slumped against the door, panting, and then she remembered the communicating door and darted across to lock it. At the same instant Justin reached the outer door and, finding it locked, rattled the handle angrily.
“Andrea! Open this door!” he called.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Andrea pressed her hand against her thudding heart.
“Go away. Leave me alone,” she called back in a choked voice.
His reply was another imperative demand for her to open the door, issued in a tone that made her wonder fearfully if the lock would hold against force. She did not answer, and presently she heard him going back to his own door. A few seconds later he tapped on the paneling of the communicating door behind her.
“Andrea, I must talk to you. Tell me what’s upset you.” His voice was quieter.
Forgetting he could not see her, she shook her head and backed away toward the bed.
There was a silence for a while and then he said, “Aren’t you being rather unfair? You’ve accused me of being a hypocrite, but you haven’t explained why.”
“Oh, go away. Please go away,” she cried desperately. There was another silence until, just as she was beginning to feel physically sick with suspense, he said, “Very well. If that’s the way you want it. Good night.”
For about ten minutes—although it seemed like an hour—she remained tense and wary, listening to him moving around the next room until at last the slit of light below the door went out and there were no more sounds. Only then did her taut nerves begin to relax and she sank onto the bed with a quivering sigh of relief.
After a time she summoned the last remnants of her energy and began to undress, too weary to put away her clothes or bother with her normal cleansing routine. When she had bathed her face with cold water and cleaned her teeth, she crept between the sheets, her whole body aching with exhaustion. But although she longed for the blessed oblivion of sleep, her mind was tormented by a torrent of feverish thoughts that, like some relentless maelstrom, seemed to be dragging her down to the blackest depths of anguish and despair.
For more than an hour she tossed and twisted restlessly, turning the pillows a dozen times to find a cooler place for her throbbing head. Finally she dragged herself back to the bathroom and took three aspirins. It was past three o’clock before she fell into an uneasy doze, only to wake again, at first light, out of a macabre dream. For a while she lay still, oppre
ssed by a deep mental and physical lassitude.
But self-discipline, once learned, is not easily thrown aside, and Andrea had spent the greater part of her life schooling herself to meet reverses squarely. As the dawn light grew stronger her essential firmness of character began to reassert itself? Presently she got up, dressed and slipped cautiously out of her room and down the stairs.
The dew was heavy on the lawn as she made for the woods, and she remembered the winter morning when she had met Justin riding over the moor a few miles away from here. If only she had refused his invitation to dine with him in London, her present unhappiness would never have come about. But it was no use mulling over past mistakes. What she must do now was to decide how best to face the future.
Last night, when she had been too angry to think clearly, she had considered running out—leaving the whole wretched tangle behind and starting afresh, in America perhaps, or somewhere far away where she could resume her career without embarrassment.
Now, reconsidering the idea, she knew it was impossible. Marriage was not something one could cancel as easily as a subscription—even this kind of marriage. In fact, because it was this kind of marriage, the discussion that she had overheard last night and that might be justification for a normal wife to leave her husband was in her own circumstances no excuse for any default.
Why, then, had the discovery of Justin’s association with another woman been such a stunning blow? There was not one single logical reason.
Coming to a clearing among the trees, she sat down on a mossy log and lighted a cigarette, her delicately marked eyebrows drawn into a troubled frown.
Why had she assumed that she would be the only woman in his life when their relationship was so incomplete, so lacking in any of the qualities that would give her the right of loyalty and consideration? Perhaps she had allowed herself to forget the terms of their agreement. She was entitled to share his name, his position and his wealth—nothing more.
